“That's an hour ago. He has been home two or three times since then. Do you think he could get on for a whole hour without wanting the Missus? Oh, there he is. Stop, and I'll catch him.”
He was caught, and led forward prisoner by his pretty wife, who never once let him go, lest he should slide away again, and become absorbed in the mysterious electioneering groups that haunted the town.
“Now—Harrie—Missus, just wait—I'll be back in a minute.”
“Not a minute! Anne has sent word that she wants you directly—you and Nathanael. You'll go, brother!”
“Whither?”
“To Thornhurst, to meet Mr. Trenchard and some other folk. You must start immediately.”
Mr. Harper glanced towards his wife, who had dropped his arm; not pointedly, but as though release were welcome.
“What, couldn't it leave its pet again?” cried Harrie, laughing. “Bless it, nobody demands that terrible sacrifice. Do you think Anne would invite husbands without their wives? We are all to go—if you agree, Agatha.”
“Oh, yes!” It was quite indifferent to her where she went, or what she did.
So they all four started in one of those inimitable conveyances called dog-carts, which seem to offer every facility for “accidental death,” either by flying over the horse's head, tumbling under the wheels, or slipping off behind.